


To Listen And Obey

by allflavoursofkink (Iolre)



Series: Johnlock Flavours [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bottom Sherlock, Fingering, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Military Kink, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Punishment, Riding Crop, Rimming, Shameless Smut, Smut, Top John, mild Dom/Sub, mild dirty talk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-17
Updated: 2013-11-17
Packaged: 2018-01-01 19:23:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1047659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iolre/pseuds/allflavoursofkink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's got a bit of a thing for 'Captain Watson'. Shameless smut, military kink.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Listen And Obey

**Author's Note:**

> Written for this prompt: Johnlock. Military kink? ;)
> 
> You can prompt me whatever smutty things you want [here!](http://allflavoursofkink.tumblr.com)

“Get down.” John narrowed his eyes as Sherlock smirked but didn’t move. So he was going to do things this way, then. John took a step closer to his partner. He lowered his voice. “I said, ‘get down’, you naughty little tart.” John reached up and roughly used his hand to shove Sherlock to his knees. Sherlock dropped, letting out a soft little noise, breathy and wanting. Inwardly John smiled, but he didn’t allow his face to change. “Dirty little slut like you just wants to be punished, I bet.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply and John slapped him. Not hard enough to bruise, but enough to sting, enough to make a point. “You don’t speak unless I tell you to.” Sherlock fell silent, watching him intently, pupils blown from arousal. His erection was straining against his tailored pants, and he was starting to breathe just a bit faster. John walked around Sherlock, assessing, his eyes intent. Sherlock made a move to follow him and John roughly grabbed his hair, using it to keep him facing forward. “Eyes front.”

“Yes, Sir,” Sherlock murmured, the words barely leaving his mouth before John slapped him.

“You’re a disobedient little tart, aren’t you? Stand and strip. Hands on the bed, arse out.” Watching Sherlock out of the corner of his eyes, John moved to the wardrobe, opening it and pulling out one of their favourite implements. “Eyes front,” John barked, and obediently Sherlock’s eyes went to the bed. He was naked now, contrasting with John’s army fatigues, and his hands were on the edge of the bed, feet planted solidly with his gorgeous arse pushed out behind him.

John allowed himself a moment to just appreciate Sherlock’s body. He was long and lean, pale skin practically glowing in the softly lit room. Sherlock was naked, except for John’s dog tags hanging on a thin metal chain around his neck. “You didn’t fold your clothes, and you haven’t listened to a word I said. How many strokes for that, do you think?” The leather of the riding crop smacked gently against John’s fingers as he walked to stand a few paces behind Sherlock. “You may speak.”

“As many as you think I need, Captain Watson,” Sherlock murmured. He was swaying where he stood, hips canting back and forth slightly.

“Ten, I think. And you will count them. If you miss a stroke, we will start again. If you let go of the bed, we will start again.” John stepped forward when Sherlock didn’t answer. He slid a hand into Sherlock’s hair and pulled his head back, drawing a startled, strangled cry from the consulting detective. “Do you understand me, slut?”

“Yes, Captain,” Sherlock replied meekly. His head dropped forward towards his chest as John let go of it, and he shifted, widening his stance. From where John was standing he could see the tags, hanging in the air and swaying as Sherlock did.

“Good boy,” John praised. He lifted the crop, relishing the feel of its handle in his hand, before bringing it down on Sherlock’s arse. The first strike was rarely hard, and it sounded worse than it felt.

“One, Captain Watson, sir,” Sherlock said, shifting restlessly.

The second was harder, and John watched the skin turn pink, blood rushing to the surface, before it faded. “Two, Captain,” Sherlock counted, fingers tightening their grip in the duvet.

John let time spool out before he flicked out with the crop again, allowing Sherlock to become impatient, his hips moving restlessly as he waited. It was hard, not knowing when or what would happen, but that was most of the fun. He snapped the crop out, and Sherlock yelped. “Three, Sir - Captain.”

By the time John had reached ten, Sherlock’s arse was a dusky pink, and he jerked every time the crop struck, his breathing fast and short, moans escaping him every time the pain rushed through his body. “Ten, Captain Watson,” Sherlock managed, knuckles white as he clutched at the duvet, trying to remain standing without letting go.

“Good.” John stroked a hand down Sherlock’s back, and he felt some of the tension seep out of Sherlock’s body. It was hard to not throw Sherlock onto the bed and take him now, hard and fast. He had to be patient. John palmed himself through his trousers, inhaling sharply at the contact, just enough to take the edge off of his arousal.

John dropped to his knees just behind Sherlock, stroking his palms down Sherlock’s sides as he did so. He pried Sherlock’s arse apart and felt Sherlock tense underneath him, hissing at the pain of John’s hands handling his sore flesh. John waited deliberately, feeling Sherlock grow impatient in how his hips moved, the way his fingers flexed. Finally his breathing slowed, and his fingers relaxed, no longer clenching the life out of John’s duvet.

He leaned forward and licked up Sherlock’s cleft, drawing a startled yelp and choked moan from the consulting detective. “Don’t come,” John instructed, before delving back in. He started with slow, teasing licks, circling around to where Sherlock wanted his mouth the most. Sherlock started canting his hips back, thrusting his backside into John’s face, and the military doctor let go, slapping his arse sharply enough to sting. “Stop it, slut.”

Sherlock whimpered, moving his weight from foot to foot, before he settled again. His head was down, long, pale fingers gripping the fabric tightly enough to tear it. Once John was satisfied with Sherlock’s posture, he leaned forward, circling with his tongue before licking a broad swipe up the cleft. Sherlock nearly jumped, but quickly steadied. He was breathing so quickly that John half-feared he was going to hyperventilate.

Instead John started licking and sucking, curling his tongue and pressing it inwards, into Sherlock’s body. Sherlock keened underneath him, nearly sobbing at the effort it took to keep from pushing backwards. John continued to breach him with his tongue, loosening the muscle, feeling it relax underneath him.

Finally he pulled back, releasing Sherlock’s arse. “Stay,” he commanded, walking over to the nightstand and pulling out a tube of lube. John quickly slicked up three of his fingers, tossing the tube onto the bed in front of Sherlock. “Don’t come until I say you can.”

A breathy noise was his only answer. John teasingly circled Sherlock’s hole with his slick finger, loving the way Sherlock tilted back towards him. Each little noise, each little thing that showed how much Sherlock had lost control, send pulses of arousal through his body and coalesced in his groin. He was harder than he had been in a long time, and part of him worried about leaving an imprint of his cock in the fatigues. Not that he wore them for much else, not anymore.

He slid his first finger in without warning, one slow, steady breach. Sherlock was so quiet that John paused to make sure that he was still breathing. “John,” Sherlock choked out, so much emotion in that one word that John couldn’t discipline him for it.

“Quiet,” John said, a gentler version of his normal command tone. He moved his finger in and out, pressing in, hooking his finger so it slid over Sherlock’s prostate and made him cry out. Next he added another finger, watching them slide in and out of Sherlock’s body. He slide his gaze up and down Sherlock, watching the way his muscles twitched, hearing the noises he made. “Quiet, or I’ll gag you,” John ordered. He added a third finger. Sherlock was probably biting his lip, and John could see the seams in the duvet tearing. He smirked.

“You like this, don’t you?” John mused out loud, watching the three fingers get taken in by Sherlock’s body. He was so incredibly hot and tight, muscles fluttering around John’s fingers. “Like my fingers in you, stretching out your tight hole after I punished you.”

Sherlock moaned his agreement, pushing back against John’s hand the slightest amount. “Later I’ll take you downstairs, throw you over my knee, and spank you like the naughty tart you are.” John lowered his voice deliberately, increasing the pace of his fingers. Sherlock was nearly keening. “Then I’ll push you against the wall and fuck you, no preparation for you, just my cock sliding into you, forcing you apart.” Sherlock’s hands balled into fists. “That’s it,” John encouraged, low and breathy. “Come for me, love.”

His cock untouched, Sherlock jerked and moaned, his body squeezing around John’s fingers as the military doctor deliberately grazed Sherlock’s over-sensitive prostate. John swiftly wrapped an arm about Sherlock’s middle, preventing him from collapsing. Instead Sherlock sank to his knees with John’s help, his breathing rapid as he looked up at the shorter man through half-closed eyes. His gaze swiftly shifted down to John’s prominent erection. John looked at him, and lifted an eyebrow. “Suck me off, tart. And be quick about it.”

Sherlock snorted quietly, but shuffled forward on his knees, deft fingers undoing John’s belt and then the zipper and button of his trousers. He eased John’s throbbing cock out of his trousers, and John bit back a moan at the feeling of Sherlock’s clever fingers on the hard flesh. John slid a hand into Sherlock’s curls, taking just enough of a grip to remind Sherlock that he was there. He barely had time to process what was happening before Sherlock took him into his wet mouth, sinking down until the tip of John’s cock hit the back of Sherlock’s throat. Sherlock looked gorgeous like that, his cupid-bow lips stretched obscenely around John’s cock. The sight alone was nearly enough to set John off - he had been on edge the entire time during their scene.

Then Sherlock swallowed, and John saw stars, managing a strangled moan before emptying himself into Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock mouthed at him a little bit longer, until John was shivering at the stimulation, and then pulled off, resting his forehead against John’s hip. Gently John tugged his hair, encouraging him to stand.

John stripped the rest of his clothes off, using the cotton tee he wore under his fatigues to wipe both of them off. “On the bed, love, on your front.” Sherlock listened, carefully standing and laying down on the bed, a pillow under his head. John grabbed the cream out of the nightstand, settling next to Sherlock. He squirted some of the cream on his fingers and applied it to Sherlock’s sore arse, soothing away any burning that would have been left from their activities.

Sherlock’s eyes fluttered closed, and he hummed, pleased. John grabbed a washcloth, wiping his hands off. He settled back next to Sherlock, nudging him until he moved so that John could slide behind him, careful to leave space for Sherlock’s sore flesh. “You okay?” he asked softly, leaning forward to mouth at the back of Sherlock’s neck. The metal of the dog tags’ chain was cool against his lips, but it set something off, in John’s possessive hindbrain, seeing Sherlock wearing them. It showed that he owned him, that Sherlock was his, and no one else could take him away.

The consulting detective snorted, as if he couldn’t imagine anything going wrong, and waited for John to drape an arm over his side. Sherlock slid his hand into John’s, clasping them together. “You know what I like,” Sherlock said with a slight shrug. There was a pause, where both men were quiet, and John felt his eyelids drooping. “Are you really going to spank me in the living room?” 

There was an undercurrent of excitement, of nervous apprehension, and John chuckled, pressing a kiss to Sherlock’s neck. “And I’ll fuck you against the wall.”

Sherlock hummed his agreement. “The sofa, too.”

“Greedy, aren’t we.”

“What good is an experiment if you can’t replicate the results, John?” Sherlock tsked, and it felt very much like a reprimand.

“Oh, I think we can fit in at least one or two replications. I care very much about the scientific method.”

“Sarcasm doesn’t suit you.”

“I think being tied up and sitting in a corner until I decided you deserved a reward and sucked you off would suit you,” John murmured, low and throaty. He was rewarded by a sharp, albeit sleepy, inhalation from his partner. Smirking, John stroked Sherlock’s hand with his thumb, amused and comforting, even though both men were heavy-lidded and drowsy. Promises, promises. Good thing both of them had the weekend off.


End file.
